Author's Note: Holy shmucks! It's been this long! I'm really sorry to everyone who alerted but didn't get the update that I lied about being posted soon. Well, the next bits are coming along quite nicely, and I hope you enjoy this anyway!

Dedicated to my awesome friend Soles and the ever awesome SALYSHA for proofreading and commenting! (Track Changes still blows my mind!)

Chapter III

Picture this: hair.

Hair flying in all directions, splayed against the floor, wall, space; long locks of platinum blond hair and the occasional flecks of shorter, jet-black locks against it, just flying… everywhere.

No, this isn't bad hair day number 22. The shower drain did not push its contents back. I do not have extensions. This is what happens when you spar with Nikolai in the middle of the night, and his "new move from Brazil"—a swift, full-force flying enzuigiri that turned into elevated sleeper hold that became a backslide into a tree—doesn't kill you. Despite that, though, your head feels like it was hit by a Japanese bullet train that was carrying a million tons of Arabian sand. I attempted to stand up and was met with a container ship and an oil tanker's equivalent—if condensed—of a foot in my face. Plus the fact that the leather boots Nikolai had on were steel-capped. I had no time to think, what the fuck…? because, of course, I was knocked out cold, and then this started happening.

Now, back to the hair.

Surprisingly, some of it thins out, allowing you to see—oh, who is that uncharming, vampiric creature? Oh, it's me, never mind—sucking face with a girl. Note the connotation of girl. I found it hilarious, too, in the first few seconds of it happening, but then I realized how freaking HARD I was getting! You know what I mean! And this was just MAKING OUT! Man, was my imaginary self in for a thrill.

I picked up after a bit that this wasn't drunken making out but—from the way she was holding me—more of an expression of a passionate love affair. Me! Passionate love affair! She was holding "me" close—sort of protectively, ironically. I realized how the room was kind of dark, without windows, with a floral scent lacing the air. In a corner of the room was a vase, containing one white flower. It looked like a pointy orchid, but I couldn't quite tell what flower it was because not too many flowers grow in Siberia, you know.

Imaginary me was slowing down, as was the mystery girl with her infinite locks of hair. She looked young, with her lips pale and skin soft and perfect. The eyes, I could not tell; they were shut.

Slowly, I was pulling away, but the mystery girl kept pulling me back. She was saying something to "me," but I could not hear her. Our faces detached, and she opened her eyes. They were a watery blue; their look was soft but guarded.

Not a moment after she opened her eyes, she turned into water and splashed on me. The real me, this time. I didn't realize that it was real water until I opened my eyes to find myself in my room with Nikolai. Do not get the wrong idea…. But yeah, thanks so much, bastard.

He splashed me with water because nothing else would work, and he was in hysterics. I tried to figure out why, and immediately saw the bulge down there. I shot him a cold glare, tried to sit up, and couldn't. My elbows buckled and immediately I felt my head—the one on my shoulders-throb uncontrollably.

"Sergei," he was finally able to say, after laughing so hard. He tossed me a packet of little pills. "Here. Paracetamol. These should help with the pain."

Still shooting him with imaginary daggers, I accepted them. "How many?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"Depends on you. Maybe three or four. The recommended dose for normal people is one to two. Double it for guys like us, I guess."

I groaned, attempting to alleviate the pain by massaging my temples. It would have worked if I had been hit with just the enzuigiri, sleeper hold, or backslide into the tree at half force. The combination of those three—at full force, mind you—was deadly, even to me.

I popped the little red pills in my mouth and swallowed them dry. As I reached for the TV remote, Nikolai stopped me.

"Sebastian doesn't know about this," he said. "Keep quiet for now. I took care of the rest. I bugged some trees and set up some monitors around the perimeter while you were out. I think the best thing for the both of us right now is to just sleep, okay? Let's meet up at 6:45 a.m. by the pond. Come out through your balcony, just to be safe."

Taking it all in, I asked, "What time is it?"

Nikolai grinned. "It's only about… quarter past one in the morning." He patted my thigh once, then remembered the problem, and patted my arm instead, trying not to laugh. "See you in the morning, Sergei."

He picked up his fist wraps and left my room silently.

God, we were badass.

Five hours later, I woke up, still with a pounding headache. If only it were a hangover, it would be worth something, but it wasn't. I propped myself up on my elbows and touched the side of my head. It was tender, and not in a good way. My throat was dry and scratchy, and it hurt to breathe. I could tell just by the dryness of my eyes that they were bloodshot from Nikolai's hold. My neck also felt stiff and limp at the same time from the backslide contact with the tree.

I was messed up real bad. I scowled for the first time since a certain red-headed Korean slashed my face in action a few years ago. And shot my thigh. And roundhouse-kicked me from atop a car, landing spurs on my brow bone.

But that's a different story. Moving on... I do believe I could use some water before I channel the inner escapist in me as I will later jump out the window. Or something like that.

The sun was still lazily climbing up the red-violet sky when I ended up by the pond. Nikolai hadn't come yet, and it was already 6:50. For all I knew, Sebastian had caught him, and we would get fired. Or he was just oversleeping. For five minutes, I walked around the large oak about seven meters away and then I saw him walk up one of the many gravel paths. He had a jump in his step and a glimmer in his eye, and I groaned at the thought of him probably having found a stash of porn or a wandering bimbo somewhere.

He came to me, smiling for no reason, apparently. We talked a little of how my head was killing me and, after five minutes, went back to the house.

We were completely safe, and Sebastian explained to us how our schedule would be changed. When the reinforcements would come, Nikolai would explain what the gunmen would do, and I would take care of the aerial surveillance men and the dog handlers. Mr. Hennigan would call at around 5 p.m. and tell us how things were going with finding competent men.

He also asked why I looked the way I did, like "the chef had pounded me with a meat mallet." Nikolai told him that I had thought I had seen someone, hit a tree, and rolled down to the pond. He laughed, though carefully, as if he didn't believe. But Nikolai quickly changed the subject.

"With all due respect, sir, we are tired, hungry men. Would you please notify the kitchen that we would have breakfast in our rooms, please?"

He nodded. "All right, then. I'll have breakfast sent up soon. Would you like some tea or coffee with it?"

I just needed water. "Black tea," was what my mouth said. And despite the fact that it would taste really bad, it was what I needed. Urgh, tea.

I pretty much limp-ran back to my room after Nikolai said 'coffee' and peeled off my clothes for a shower.

Towel around my waist, I went to pick up the clothes I had abandoned the night before, from before I changed into Mr. Rochefort's blue suit for dinner. Neatly folded in a pile next to the sink, I slipped them on, hearing some clicks from the door and the clatter of cutlery and porcelain. I left the bathroom barefoot, to find a tray of two triangular pieces of bread on a plate with some sort of thick syrup poured over them—they were scones, apparently—tea, honey, milk, and water. Thank God for water. That, you know, I could drink.

I grabbed the huge goblet of water and downed its contents faster than you could say "killshot." It suppressed the urge—temporarily—to kill Nikolai for doing this to me. Oh, well.

I took my tray out to the balcony, which was warming up as it faced the morning sun partially. I sat down on a wrought-iron chair and set the tray on the matching wrought-iron-and-glass table. From my perspective, the pond was gleaming and the spot where Nikolai and I had sparred could be detected quite easily: there were huge brown patches in the grass. Well, Nikolai could probably use the excuse that he had bugged the place, if we were asked. Yes, he would be the one to explain. It was his fault, anyway.

Then I saw something—movement?

Somewhere near the pond area, on the west side from where I was standing, the ground had moved. And I'm not talking about earthquake movement. I analyzed the spot and recalled: when it was elevated, it was sort of rectangular in shape. Sort of a secret hatch, maybe? And in broad daylight. If that was the Mishima group, man, were they getting bad. Bonus points for Nikolai and I, though.

I made a mental note to check it out later in the day or later tonight. But for the present, I stuffed half of a scone into my mouth and regretted it. It wasn't exactly what it looked like—not that it wasn't good, though—but instead of something light and fluffy—and because of the glaze—it was more of a cross between a donut and a tea biscuit. With whole nuts in it. And chewy at that.

Doubtless, it was delicious and I made sure to take smaller bites—damnit—and then a light shower of rain began to spray from the sky. I finished up the scone and drank the tea—ginger tea, apparently—and, instantly, felt calmer. I reviewed how many times I had been assigned to an unfamiliar place to do dirty business. No other time had I felt so confident and had adjusted so fast, and no other time did I have a strange feeling at the pit of my stomach at the same time. And usually, when my gut gets into things, things get ugly.

But what could be bothering me so much? Had something similar happened before? Was there something someone wasn't telling me or something going on behind our backs? Who was the mysterious lady in my dreams, and why—no, how—had I gotten that image?

After much introspection, I sighed. And then I made the executive decision to go and harass Nikolai for almost mauling me.